


Snake Eyes

by TheChainLink



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crime/thriller, Gambling, High Stakes, Mobsters, Shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:15:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheChainLink/pseuds/TheChainLink
Summary: Rule number one of gambling - always have a way out.





	Snake Eyes

You ever have one of those moments where you immediately know you messed up? It’s like the split second after you stub your toe before the pain kicks in; you see your mistake and have no choice but to face the consequences.

If you have, then you’ll know how I felt the moment I said the words, ‘Hit me again.’

No sooner had they left my mouth than I wanted to take them back. But already the dealer, a tank of a man with knuckles the size of shot glasses, was fishing another card from the middle of the deck and placing it in front of me. Across the table, Mugsy watched on. I thought I saw his eyes sparkling.

Outside I was calm, regarding this new card with the same interest as I would any other. On the inside every one of my instincts was screaming at me to run, grab a weapon, any kind of weapon, and make a break for it. Then I remembered Mugsy’s legion of pinstripe-suited bodyguards standing outside the office door, some even bigger than the dealer, ready to reduce my insides to powder at a moment’s notice. That put somewhat of a damper on my plan.

I must have been out of my mind to agree to a game of crackerjack, especially with him. Admittedly, _agree_ wasn’t really the right word – _agree_ implies consent of free will, not under the pressure of knowing that your face could be embedded in the nearest wall by a guy with a suit size higher than his IQ if you say no.

For all of you at home, I’ll fill you in: crackerjack was Mugsy’s way of combing blackjack and Russian roulette into a single deadly game of chance. ‘Double the thrill in half the time,’ as he would say. Played with at least two people, each player takes as many cards from the deck as they want, with the goal of your cards adding up to twenty-one. Any lower, and they risk losing to someone else.

And if they go any higher, therein lies the rub.

You see, in crackerjack the losers don’t just walk away from the table with lighter wallets and faces like thunder. If you go over twenty-one, you have to take a revolver, put it to your head, pull the trigger and hope to all hell that it’s not loaded. On the off chance that it isn’t, you win the entire pot. And let’s just say that Mugsy didn’t like to lose.

So you can understand my… let’s call it “apprehension”. I knew for a fact that the cards in my deck added up to sixteen, meaning that I couldn’t get higher than a five. I’m willing to bet that Mugsy knew it too.

 _Okay,_ I reasoned. _This isn’t so bad. Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe I’ll get the Joker. Hell, maybe I’ll win the whole damn pot!_ I had to fight back the urge to laugh. Any sane person could see that I was lying to myself, holding out for an impossibility. In situations like these, I knew that those impossibilities were vital; they tricked my brain, giving me hope and keeping me calm, holding me together.

Without so much as a raise of an eyebrow I turned the card over.

Staring back at me was the ten of diamonds, the bright red symbols practically glowing in contrast to the dim light.

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from swearing. I had never been more thankful for the sunglasses hiding my eyes.

Mugsy’s filthy lips spread apart in an ear-to-ear shit-eating grin. His gold tooth glimmered like something out of a film noir. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘I was wondering when you’d slip up, Snakey. To tell you the truth, that was the best game I’ve played in a while. You were pretty good.’

 _Were._ Past tense. He had already written me off as a has-been, an ex-rival, a _were._

I shrugged, playing it off as though I had just lost a game of pinball. ‘Well if the destination’s crappy, the journey doesn’t really matter.’

Somehow Mugsy grinned even wider. ‘I couldn’t agree more. And speaking of crappy destinations…’ He snapped his fingers. The dealer set the deck aside. In less than three seconds he had slapped a revolver into my hand, closed my fingers around it and twisted my arm into place so the barrel was pointed at my left temple, my forefinger wrapped around the trigger.

For a few moments I simply sat there, unable or unwilling to process what was happening, how I had come out of the frying pan and into the fire in the space of just over a minute.

Mugsy finally spoke, snapping me back to reality. ‘In your own time, Snakes.’ He said. ‘Unless you’re as yellow as them eyes of yours.’

‘Well, give me a minute.’ I snapped. ‘It’s not like I’m getting a tooth pulled.’

Leaning back in his chair, Mugsy smiled. ‘Sure, take all the time you need. Just know that you ain’t leaving this room without pulling that trigger.’

‘Fair enough.’ _All the time you need?_ The man had the attention span of a child; that gave me a few minutes at most. I grasped desperately for subjects to keep them occupied. ‘You know for a second there, I could’ve sworn you were cheating, Mugsy.’

Mugsy raised his eyebrows in mock offence. ‘Why would I do a thing like that? I got my honour to think about, don’t I?’

In spite of the situation, I actually laughed. ‘Honour, Mugsy? You? I know I always wanted to go out laughing, but don’t give that any bullshit. You owe me that much, at least.’

Mugsy nodded. ‘I guess so.’ He drew a cigar out of his pocket, lit it and offered it to me. I took it – I’m not normally a smoker, but what the hell.

I took a deep puff and blew out a thick grey cloud, movie-mobster style. I could feel my calm façade cracking – by this point it was as much of a façade for me as it was for them. To keep myself occupied (and distracted) I diverted my train of thought into a quick burst of mental calculations:

In the almost ten years I’d known Mugsy, I had either played or borne witness to several games of crackerjack with him, and never once had the revolver been completely empty. There had always been at least one bullet (which invariably ended up in the head of an opponent), meaning that if I were to pull the trigger, there was at least a one-in-six chance that it would go off.

I risked a small smile – I decided I liked those odds.

Mugsy raised an eyebrow. ‘Something you want to share with the rest of the class, Snakes? Come on, are you gonna pull that trigger or do I hafta-‘

Without warning I turned the pistol on him and pulled the trigger.

_Click._

My heart skipped a beat. I pulled the trigger five times more in quick succession: _click-click-click-click-click._ For once the gun was empty. He had played me, calling the ultimate bluff.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

But Mugsy did. His laugh was almost deafening in the compact office, a cold, cruel sound utterly devoid of humour. ‘You little shit.’ He wheezed. ‘You conniving little pissrat. I’m surprised you can walk with balls that size.’ His smile twisted into a scowl. ‘Too bad they’re about to get ripped off.’

He snapped his fingers at someone behind me, and I felt someone grab my collar and haul me out of my chair. Somehow the hulking dealer had moved behind me without me noticing. A hand reached around me to grab the front of my shirt and turn me around. My vision was obscured by the shadow of a colossal fist. I barely had time to act, but enough for my brain to remember the gun still in my hand. Microseconds stretched into slow motion as the fist approached my face and I bought my gun hand up to meet his. As far as I could tell, my fist made contact with his face just as his met mine. It was like getting hit by a truck. My sunglasses split apart. My vision was reduced to a series of lights blinking in nothingness, the world around me nothing more than white noise. I was vaguely aware of the revolver hitting home and shattering in my hand. Then all of a sudden it all came rushing back: Mugsy’s office, the dealer clutching his face, Mugsy himself screaming at him to get back on his feet and to kill that fucker already.

I spun around. Mugsy was still in his chair, staring at me with what I can only describe as pure hatred and pulling at something in his jacket pocket, swearing all the while as it refused to come free. My brain was still reeling from the blow, but I was able to pull myself together and head over to the dealer. Clubbing him round the head once again for good measure, I positioned myself behind him and yanked him upright in front of me as I heard Mugsy yell out in triumph, followed by the sound of six-seven-eight-nine-ten shots slamming into the dealer’s body and Mugsy’s almost inhuman scream of frustration. The shots came so fast the giant didn’t even have time to react; he became a dead weight in my hands, and I let him drop to the floor. The impact shook the floor beneath my feet.

I spied Mugsy behind his desk, furiously trying to reload. I took a running start and flung myself over the desk, colliding with him head-on and knocking him out of his chair. I went in swinging, throwing punches and kicks at any part of him I could reach.

I needn’t have bothered.

The moment Mugsy’s back hit the floor he grabbed me by the arms and flung me off him, sending me flying into a display case.

I collided upside-down with a mess of wood and shattered glass. Blood flowed into my mouth. My head sank to the floor, and some part of me realised that I was about to tip over when something grabbed me by the hair and hauled me upright.

Mugsy’s face swam into my vision, contorted with sheer hatred. ‘Why can’t you just be a good little pest and _DIE ALREADY?!’_

Whatever part of my brain was still working at this point clearly wasn’t connected to my mouth. I spat up blood and replied: **'Because a cockroach can survive without its head.'**

I grinned.

Then my face came down upon the desk.

**_SLAM!_ **

Time seemed to slow down; between the collisions with the hard wooden surface and the subsequent blasts of pain was a split-second view of the desk.

**_SLAM!_ **

My brain zeroed in on something small and shiny next to the rapidly-growing crater left by my head.

**_SLAM!_ **

A pen!

**_SLAM!_ **

My right hand clamped down on the desk and closed around the pen. As Mugsy brought me back up for another round I thrust the tiny blade into the fatty flesh of his arm. There was a howl of agony. I twisted free, tearing a clump of my hair and leaving Mugsy to rear back in pain. Before he could snatch his hand away I stabbed the point into his wrist, right in the artery, dragging it through the skin and slitting it open completely.

Blood bubbled out from between Mugsy’s fat fingers as the colour drained from his face. In spite of everything, the bastard was smiling. ‘Balls the size of globes, Snakes. You always were the resourceful type.’

I gave a smile of my own. ‘What can I say? You keep me on my toes.’

Mugsy threw back his head and laughed. ‘You’re goddamned right.’

And without warning he charged me like a crazed bull.

Reflexively I stepped aside, watching Mugsy collide with and topple over the desk and onto the floor. Then I snatched up his gun from where it lay and emptied the clip into his stupid face.

I stood there for a good few moments, allowing my brain to process the shitstorm of the past few minutes and feeling my heartbeat normalise a little.

With my heart still pounding in my chest, I surveyed the situation: two dead bodies, a wrecked office, and the blood on my hands – and not all of it was theirs. I bent down and started rifling through Mugsy’s seemingly infinite number of pockets until I found what I was looking for: a small key about the size of my middle finger. I closed my fist around it in triumph and rushed for the office door. Mugsy almost never locked it – if a game or business meeting went south, his men could come to his aid at a moment’s notice and reduce his assailants to bloody pulps.

That played nicely into another feature of the office: I’d witnessed enough ugly deals from outside that door to know that the place was damn near soundproof. This building was first and foremost for legitimate business, and features like these were just well-oiled cogs that kept the façade running like a charm. From outside, a gunshot would be no louder than a knock on wood. Helped to keep the illusion up. Mugsy would joke that this place was practically a doomsday bunker.

Judging by the kinds of connections he’d had, I was inclined to believe him.

Even so, I had to act quickly; Mugsy’s goons would get a little suspicious if the meeting ran long. There’d be no point trying to hide the bodies – the goons finding their boss’s corpse would be bad; having all three men gone with blood everywhere would look even worse.

I finished locking the door and turned back around. Immediately my eyes fixed on a bookcase in the corner. If I had a dollar for every minute that had ever been spent looking at that bookcase, I could just about afford a decent steak dinner. People never paid it any attention, and why would they? When someone came into this office, they were either talking business or pissing themselves with fear. A bookshelf was probably the last thing on their minds.

Stepping over to it, I thought that was quite a shame, really. Because upon closer examination one would realise that every one of the books were false, fixed in place to look “intellectual” and nothing more.

Except for one.

In the top right corner stood a single genuine black-and-gold bound volume: _The Godfather_ by Mario Puzo. Quite fitting. I placed a hand on it and tilted it backwards. As I released it, the book sprung back into place. I watched the bookcase sink back into the wall and slide aside, leaving a doorway about six by four feet.

I smiled to myself. _Always have a way out._

Taking one last glance at the aftermath, I stepped inside and felt a pressure plate depress beneath my feet. Behind me, the bookcase shifted back into place. In any other circumstance, it would’ve been a perfect escape. The irony was enough to make me laugh.

To another man, visibility within the passageway would be almost non-existent. Fortunately, one of the advantages of my “condition” was something that approximated a form of night vision. Not quite a superpower, but enough to get by in a place like this.

At the end of the passageway was what appeared to be a dead end. Working myself up, I took a running start and slammed my shoulder into the dead end once, twice, three times before it gave way and swung open, letting in the cold night air of an adjacent alleyway. I stepped outside and pushed the door back into place so it once again stood flush with the brick wall.

I’d barely gone ten paces before something inside me lurched, forcing me to my knees. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself upright and took another step forward. Something else gave in, more painfully this time, stopping me in my tracks again. My body had been running on pure adrenaline for the past few minutes, blotting out the pain to focus on more important things. Now that it was allowed to relax, the pain flooded over me. It was almost overwhelming. I swore; I had planned to take action once I’d gotten somewhere more secure, but it would be impossible to keep moving in my current condition. My escape had bought me some time, and now I had to use it.

As if on cue, a gust of wind blew a sheet of paper against my chest. I peeled it off, being careful not to tear it; if it was what I thought it was, it could be my salvation. 

When I unrolled that piece of paper, I saw the face of a flabby middle-aged man staring back at me in black-and-white. Below which was the word “MISSING”, followed by a list of the person’s name and information, including (thank God) their weight and height. If the man hadn’t been missing or dead, I could have kissed them. Normally I wouldn’t choose someone who wasn’t actively being searched for, but beggars can’t be choosers. Plus when this person was found, they probably wouldn’t get their organs sold on the black market. Smoothing the paper out as best I could, I placed it against the wall beneath the halo of a street lamp to see it as clearly as possible.

Clearing my mind, I pictured myself, then the missing man, then myself again, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, seeing myself become that man. My face began to convulse, morphing, changing, forcing itself outwards. New folds of flesh puffed outwards from beneath my neck, creating a double chin. I felt myself sink downwards into shoes that were quickly becoming too large. Skin stretched like a rubber suit, sagging, _aging;_ my hair grew long and grey, with tufts falling out entirely. More importantly, the new flesh filled in my wounds.

All this in the space of just a few minutes. With growing pains, the bones grow outwards over the course of several days, during which time it hurts like a bitch. Now imagine the reverse of that over the course of about five minutes. Not fun.

At the end of it all, I stood almost a foot shorter and about twice my previous waist size, a rough approximation of the man on the missing poster. Checking my reflection in a nearby puddle, I thought I’d done a pretty good job, all things considered. A whole new me. Something original would have been preferrable, but that would take a lot more time and energy than what I currently had. As it was, I would have trouble walking. But at least I wouldn’t bleed out anytime soon.

I made my way out of the alleyway and into the street, already shedding my more incriminating clothing. I had no idea where I was going, or what I would do next, besides getting a new pair of sunglasses.

What can I say? Becoming a new person gives you a lot of options.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to SpiritsShackled for proofreading!


End file.
